Spellbound
by romanticidiot
Summary: I don't think this has a plot. It's just 2000 words of Aziraphale worshipping Crowley with his eyes, and then they kiss at the end. Slash.


**Disclaimer: **The characters and world depicted in this fanwork do not belong to me.

**Spellbound**

**Neck**

Crowley lounges. The sun rises in the morning, sets in the evening, and Crowley lounges. These are facts. He drapes himself over furniture, leans dramatically against doorframes, slouches in the Bentley.

Aziraphale just sits. Leans slightly forward, sometimes, if he's honest, because when he does, he gets to glimpse one of his favourite sights in the world – Crowley's long neck.

Crowley is always flashing it to the world, accentuating it with his tiny scarves, angling it here and there to stretch sideways to talk to Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale is spellbound.

Traces his eyes over the vulnerable, defined jawline and imagines what it would feel like if he traced it with his lips. Indulges in imagining how the muscles would feel under his mouth, contracting under his skin as Crowley swallowed and arched further for more attention.

He wants to feel it under his palms, warm, soft, inviting, as he holds Crowley's head still for him to kiss. He wants to bury his face in it, inhale the scent of him, tuck his nose into the little hollow under his jaw and stay there.

Crowley is looking at him now, stretched out companionably next to him on a park bench, completely unaware of the temptation on display above his collar, and wanting to know whether Aziraphale fancies lunch.

If that neck is going to be there, then Aziraphale fancies lunch.

* * *

**Hands**

The place Crowley has in mind for lunch is some way out of town, so Crowley is driving them there, discoursing loudly about the latest scandal on some reality TV show he won't admit he's addicted to. Aziraphale is not really listening, though he's filling in his usual, "oh my dear, really" and "you don't say" quite as usual.

Instead, he's watching Crowley's hands on the wheel of the car. Strong, dependable hands, with long, deft fingers. Hands that wrap effortlessly around the gear stick, or (occasionally) flick the turn signal on. Aziraphale is mesmerised by every movement. They are so very sure of themselves, these hands.

Aziraphale wonders if they'd be so sure of themselves if they were on his body.

Has Crowley ever done that before? Aziraphale hasn't. Hasn't wanted to. Who could possibly be more tempting than one's very own demon?

What would those hands feel like sliding over his shoulders and down his shoulder blades? Would they be deliciously warm and inviting, or cool and electrifying? Would they grab at the soft flesh of his hips as they pulled him closer to the demon's body?

He shudders a little in his seat, tries to redirect his attention to the conversation. His mouth is dry.

* * *

**Mouth**

Crowley orders a cappuccino at the restaurant, and Aziraphale receives what feels like a solid punch in the gut when Crowley pauses to lick the froth off his top lip.

Like everything the demon does, he does it with style.

Uses his long tongue to lap it up, leaving his lips red and glistening. Aziraphale has to drop his eyes to his flourless chocolate cake to stop himself from doing something embarrassing and inappropriate – like moaning.

He's seen those lips wrapped around an ice lolly, watched those cheeks hollow with suction, and felt dizzy with desire.

He is wild for those pink thin lips, that stretch so easily into a smile, even ones so small no one else could see them. Wants to worship them with his own lips, tease them until they're red and pouting, and run his fingers gently over them to feel their heat.

He's been watching those lips form words and expressions for six thousand years, and he's never grown tired of it. Could watch them for another six thousand years, in fact.

He wants to lick inside that mouth, map out all of its secrets, feel it hungry against his own. Wants to press featherlight kisses on it to wake him, and harder ones to awaken his body.

The chocolate cake is gone, and he hasn't tasted a single bite.

* * *

**Hair**

They've settled down in the bookshop for the evening, Aziraphale on the sofa and Crowley sprawled on the floor next to his legs. He'd slid off the couch earlier to reach the wine bottle and hasn't found his way back up yet. Aziraphale likes it. Likes feeling Crowley's warm weight pressed up against his calf, and looking down at the crown of that thick red hair. He can see the tips of Crowley's ears too, the arms of his sunglasses poking out behind them.

Crowley's always enjoyed experimenting with his hair. For a while, Aziraphale had even had some fun guessing how Crowley would be wearing it the next time they'd bump into each other. He'd never once been right. But some of his ideas were strangely compelling and hard to shake – the mental image of Crowley with the executive slickback style of the 1960s, for example, had stuck with him for a long time.

He'd wondered how Crowley's hair actually felt to touch. Was it soft? Or made tacky by hair products? Would it glide through his fingers, if he were to run his hand through those red locks? He'd more than once lost the thread of a conversation after getting distracted by the cluster of tiny hairs at his temples, or catching sight of the unruly curls at his nape. Had felt his mouth go dry watching Crowley run his hand carelessly through his hair in frustration.

He realises, quite suddenly, that in the midst of these musings about Crowley's hair, he'd – oh dear – let his hand creep forward to gently stroke his fingers through the hair just above his ear.

Crowley freezes for just a second and goes quiet.

"That's … that's nice, angel," he says a moment later, aiming for casual, and tilts his head forward just a bit, before picking up the conversation again. It's an invitation, but one the angel can ignore, if he chooses to.

He wants to ignore it. This feels too sudden, too real, too unfamiliar.

His feelings and thoughts about Crowley have been his little secret for such a long time, and he'd never intended to share them. He's shoved them away as often as possible, hidden his reactions and wants beneath layers and layers of repression and wilful blindness.

But today, his thoughts have been particularly hard to ignore. He's been drowning in them, in fact, and he feels a little reckless.

Almost without a conscience decision, he opens his palm and slides his whole hand forward so it cups Crowley neatly around the back of the head, embedding his fingers solidly in the warm, thick strands. It feels like … well, there are no words for how it feels. More satisfying than a warm bath, more welcoming than a cup of milky tea, sweeter than a blackberry tart.

It's everything he's wondered about and more.

He flexes his fingers and scratches gently at Crowley's scalp, driving the words from the demon once again, as he sighs out his pleasure.

"But _anyway,_" the demon continues gamely, as though centuries-old boundaries are not being crossed in the small back room of a bookshop in Soho. "The thing you have to understand is they _want_ to be told what to do. No initiative at all, plants. If you don't tell'em to grow better, they'll just go around _doing their best._ Who ever heard of success coming from someone _doing their best _…?"

Aziraphale knows he's tuning Crowley out again and he ought to be paying attention but it's occurred to him that his _favourite_ Crowley hairstyle had been his very first hairstyle. He'd had it for a long time, too, before he'd realised what fun it could be to reinvent himself. The angel hadn't realised until now how fond he'd been of those long, red ringlets cascading down his back and swinging forward to frame his face. They'd have been lovely to run his hands through, he thinks, would have pulled on each one just to watch it spring back up into its tight little coil.

"Uh, angel?" Crowley's uncertain voice brings him back into the room again, and the demon turns to look at him, Aziraphale's hand falling away from his head. "Did … did you do this or did I?"

"Do ..?" Aziraphale begins before he registers the problem. Crowley's short, modern hair is gone, replaced with – oh dear – long, red, familiar ringlets. "Oh bother. I'm sorry, my dear, I'll just –" He lifts his hand to snap everything back to normal but Crowley moves like lightning and grabs his wrist.

"_Did_ you do this?" He asks curiously. "Why?"

"Oh, I … I suppose I just got a bit carried away," Aziraphale responds bashfully, darting a glance up at him and then flicking his eyes away. "I was … I was thinking about your hairstyles, you know, you've just had so many, and this was … well, my favourite, if you must know, and …" he trails off. He's embarrassed, yes, but he's also captivated by the feeling of Crowley's hand still holding his wrist, and his mouth has forgotten how to form words.

"And ..?" Crowley prompts, almost kneeling between his legs. They're almost face-to-face, and Aziraphale feels more flustered than he ever has before in his life. He's so close to so many of his favourite features, can even see a pulse fluttering under the skin of his neck.

"You were just so _beautiful,_ darling," he blurts out, and immediately blushes when Crowley's mouth falls open in surprise. "Of course you're still beautiful now, that's not – I mean, it's not about your hair, really. It's all of you. And I was just. Thinking. About it. That's all."

"Angel," Crowley breathes, eyes wide.

"But it's not … It's … you're just always _here_," Aziraphale barrels on over the top of him, words tumbling out of him as they always do when he's uncomfortable. "With – with your hairstyles and your jokes and your _let's run away together, angel._ And it's fine, it is, I just –"

With one slithering motion, Crowley launches himself up from his knees and into Aziraphale's lap, sandwiching Aziraphale's thighs between his own, and Aziraphale is overwhelmed. They've never been this close before, so close Aziraphale can smell Crowley all around him, feel his breathing rapid and shallow on his face, feel the warm weight of him on his thighs.

"What are you doing to me, angel?" Crowley gasps out, his voice strained and a little desperate. "If you don't want this, you'd better say something soon, because I've been waiting for this a very long time and you _can't_ just sit there and talk to me about how pretty I am," Crowley says, his voice rough, both hands tight around Aziraphale's jaw. "I know it's too fast, I know that, and I listened to your request to stop, for 40 bloody years, please, please let me have this now, I-"

"Crowley," Aziraphale forces out, finally finding his senses enough to slide his arms up around Crowley's back, feels the muscles there and spreads his palms wide to take them all in. He can't believe this is happening but if Crowley has wanted him the way he's wanted Crowley, if this _is_ happening, he's not giving it up for anything. He brushes a gentle kiss to Crowley's right temple, to his cheekbone. "_Slow down_ is not the same as _stop._"

Crowley's eyes go wide again, and Aziraphale realises his glasses have fallen off and he can see every speck of gold in the demon's bright eyes. Crowley tentatively leans forward a little, lets their noses brush gently in a tiny nuzzle, their mouths inches apart.

"Aziraphale?" He asks, a mere breath of sound, so raw Aziraphale almost can't bear it.

"_Yes,_" he breathes in return and Crowley makes a sound in the back of his throat that goes straight through Aziraphale and then lowers his head and achingly slowly, takes Aziraphale's bottom lip gently between both of his own.

Aziraphale has never felt anything so tender, so exquisite, in all his many years, as those beloved lips finally meeting his.

It is _everything_.

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispers again as he pulls back, pupils blown wide, his voice so wrecked and cracking that Aziraphale has to pull him closer, has to kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring everything into it that he doesn't know if he will ever be able to say.

Crowley kisses him back like he is dying, like this is the end of everything, like he'll never get another chance, with his clever hands everywhere at once, and Aziraphale holds on and holds and holds on, because there's nothing else he can do except answer Crowley's unasked question of, 'this? Can I really have this? Forever?' with his own, silent, 'yes, yours, forever, whatever you want, _yes_'.

* * *

**Eyes**

Aziraphale has loved Crowley's eyes since the first time he saw them. No other demon has eyes like Crowley's, so bright and full of life and curiosity. No humans with their vivid greens or sapphire blues could match their allure. He's always felt compelled by Crowley's eyes, adored the mischief dancing in them, and the particular colour of amber that flows through them when's drunk. Loves to snatch sneak peaks behind his glasses, and wheedle him to remove them when they're alone.

But watching those eyes flutter open on the pillow next to him, seeing recognition and remembrance spark in them as memories resurface, watching the lids around them crinkle as their owner smiles slowly in welcome, well … he adores that most of all.


End file.
